


Keeping Warm

by simplyprologue



Category: The Tudors
Genre: F/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:22:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyprologue/pseuds/simplyprologue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caught in a sudden storm and chased into a barn, Mary and her lover, the Imperial Ambassador, find a way to keep warm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The showtime series The Tudors is obviously not mine. And the actually Tudors do not belong to showtime, so I'm not entirely sure why I'm writing this disclaimer. But I'm using their incarnations of Mary and Eustace, so I probably should finish it. 
> 
> Also, I'm probably going to hell for this. It's okay though. It's probably a party there. And yes, I know this is historically inaccurate. I'm a brit history major. But can't we all just have a bit of fun?

By the time they make it into the barn, she’s soaked through. He, in his leather doublet and thick furs, is less so. But Mary, in her thin layers of satin, is less prepared for the sudden autumn storm.

His stomach lurches when he hears her teeth chattering, and he instinctively pulls her to his chest. She laughs softly, hands rising to the buttons of his doublet, plucking them apart.

“What are you doing?” he asks, combing his fingers through her wet hair, pulling it out of her face. “Mar—”

She muffles him with a kiss, fingers working quicker and quicker, until they reach bottom and she forcefully pulls the garment apart, hands immediately searching out his wide, leanly-muscled chest, covered only by his thin chemise. Giggling against his lips, she whispers, “I’m cold.”

“But my la—”

Mary rolls her eyes, taking his hands and placing them on her waist. He’s back to using ‘my lady’ as a safeguard, not a term of endearment. Her hands slide up and into his silky curls, fingers tightening in them, anchoring him to her mouth. If only her father and his newest wife had not kept him tied to court for the past four long months.

“Eustace,” she murmurs, before running her tongue along his bottom lip, buying her entrance. Pulling back slightly, he moans, eyes slitted open. They regard each other for a moment, a slow, lazy smile playing across Mary’s face as Eustace’s hands span her waist, and then her hips, and then rise again to start undoing the laces at the bottom of the back of her bodice. Nipping at his lip, she presses herself against him, rocking her hips as she slants her mouth against his.

It’s her turn to moan when Chapuys pushes his tongue into her mouth, sliding it along hers with a torturous slowness.

_Acquiescence_ , Mary thinks. _Good._  

Loosening her stays, Eustace pulls her bodice looser and looser, but not off, instead just enough to pull down below her breasts. His hands chase up the water-laden silk and she shivers for an entirely different reason when he pulls down the neckline of her chemise and palms her small, taught breasts.

_God it’s good_.

She remembers that her hands had been occupied before Eustace’s tongue took residence in her mouth, and with stunning alacrity, Mary’s hands speed to his breeches, rubbing his hardening member with the backs of her fingers until his hips begin to jerk against her hands.

“Mary,” he whines, breaking his mouth from hers. His lips move to her jaw, licking a line to her ear before tugging the lobe of it in his mouth, causing her to groan in turn, the long, lean muscles of her finely-skinned neck elongating. He kisses his way down them, hands retreating to her waist as he maneuvers her further into the barn, abandoning her neck briefly to take in their surroundings, before lifting her easily and up onto what appears to be a work table.

She lands with an unladylike ‘oof,’ fingers scrambling for a purchase as the water soaking through her skirts suddenly meet the backs of her thighs and her bottom. Pouting up at him, he feels a twinge of embarrassment, before she rolls her eyes again and, opening her legs, pulls him to stand between them.

“Eusace,” she chide playfully, prying her boots off her feet and wrapping her legs around his hips, pulling him even closer. God, but she can feel him—hard, pulsing, ready—against her even through her layers of underclothes. “Eustace, I need you to warm me up.”

He chuckles against her hair, kissing the side of her face, tongue darting out to catch the water droplets escaping her hair and running down her face. Feeling a rush of wetness pool at her center at his low, teasing laugh, she tightens the hold of her thighs around his hips, pushing herself against him, circling her hips.

“I’ll do my best, my lady,” he murmurs against her hair line, hands moving back to her exposed breasts.

_Better_ , she thinks. She likes it when he calls her his lady that way, one pitch away from his princess, his queen. He thinks of her that way, she knows. But it’s love in his voice, even when they hide in shadows. Even though he does not often say the words. But she is his lady, and he is her… not her Ambassador. His master is her cousin. And her master is her father. But even still.

Maybe it’s with her his loyalty lies, she wonders, and then stops thinking when he kisses his way down past her collarbones and the tops of her breasts, sliding his lips around the rosy bud of her nipple.

“My gratitude,” she gasps. “Excellency.”

He hums around her breast, sucking it deeper into his mouth as he teases the other with his fingers. Impatient, he tugs down the neck of her undergarments further, causing it to tear with a caustic rip. Uncaring, Mary threads her fingers through Eustace’s curls, holding him to her breast as her hips rock into long, lean frame once more. Her other hand drifts to his shoulder, tightening as heat begins to gather in her belly, almost unbearable when he shifts to her other breast, rolling it between his teeth.

“Eustace…” she moans, rubbing herself against him shamelessly. “My darling… darling, please…”

He groans helplessly against her, and Mary pushes her hands in between them to undo the laces of his breeches and push them down his hips, before seeking out his heavy erection. Wrapping her fingers around him, she pumps him hesitantly, gaining confidence as his moans grow longer and louder against her flesh.

Never has Mary been more grateful for the rain, masking the sounds of their joining and keeping the servants from searching for them.

He releases her nipple with a gasp, eyes wild as he stands straight, pulling her hood from her head, fingers seeking out pins and pinching them from her crown, releasing her long auburn hair. He winds the soaked strands in his fingers, burying his face in it as she continues to work him over with her fragile hands.

Wetness beads at the head of his erection; Mary spreads it with her thumbs over the rest of him, coating her palms with it as she slicks him over with his own fluids. Shaking fingers heave up her skirts, pushing the wet fabric away from her pale, trembling legs.

Eustace reaches for her center, tugging down her hose in order to reach the thatch of dark curls above her lower lips. Keening, Mary lifts one leg atop the table and removes a hand from his erection to peel her stockings off, and then pull them down the other. His shortly-trimmed fingernails bite into her calves, lifting them high onto his waist.

He leans forward, forcing himself out of her hands, skirting his hands back to her warm, moist cunt, rubbing himself against her thigh as his fingers seek out the slippery node hidden in her crease.

“Mary,” he moans, finding her wet beyond belief, and ready for him. Her brows come together, and she slides her hand to the back of his neck, joining their mouths once more as his fingers play against her clit with expert precision. Long are the days when they first had to learn each other. “My… my sweet, my lovely, ma bella, ma petite belle cherie,” he murmurs thoughtlessly in her ear, mixing his love with the different tongues he knows.

“My lady,” he sighs, slipping two of his fingers into her. “My beautiful lady.”

“Eustace,” she chokes out, thrusting her hips into his hand. “Oh my—my, my Eustace. _Oh_.”

He curls his fingers against a rough patch of skin, causing her hips to jerk violently, legs tightening impossibly around him. Thumb sliding against her clit and the pads of his fingers against that—that exquisite spot, that makes her see spots and lose her breath, and _oh God, he did it again._

“That’s it, ma cherie,” he tells her soothingly, bringing her higher and higher. “I am yours. Only yours.”

Outside the rain picks up, sweeping along the grounds of Hunsdon. Lightning crackles and thunder booms, but the two lovers focus on nothing but their dry hideaway and each other.

Mary’s hands scramble for purchase on his chemise, toying with it. Annoyed, she pulls it up and over his head. Tracing the fine muscles of his torso, she hones in on his flat nipples, palming her way up rain-slickened chest to tweak them between her nimble fingers as the movements of her hips become more and more desperate against his hand.

“Now,” she whines, peering up at him, blue eyes glassy with arousal. “Now please. Eustace, I need you—”

He cuts off her stream of words with a searing kiss, pulling his fingers out of her to shuck his breeches down off his hips. His fingers return to slit momentarily, sliding up and down, making sure, making sure again—

She growls, pulling him closer with her arms and legs, leaving no room for his hands.

“ _Now_ ,” she hisses, tilting her hips forward on the table, meeting her cunt with the tip of his manhood, coating him with her wetness.

Chapuys curses—in Italian, Mary thinks, but in the moment she cannot be certain—before locking his hands around her hips, canting them even further forward, heaving her almost off the table entirely. And with one solid stroke, he sheathes himself in her entirely—a movement that leaves both of them gasping.

The angle leaves his pelvis delivering a delicious pressure against her mound, and stuttering around a breath, she burrows her face into his shoulder, fingers wrapping themselves around his exposed biceps.

“I fear, my love,” he breathes, angling his face to lay his cheek against her hair, lips near her temple, “that you will be the death of me. Such a young thing you are, and I—”

Mary snorts, swatting at him, before holding on again for dear life as he begins to move within her again. “Do not finish that sentence, Eustace. You are not _old_.”

“There is more grey in my hair than brown, unless my skills of observation are failing me, my lady.”

She tightens her inner muscles around him in retaliation, smiling breathlessly when he grunts and pistons his hips _hard_ against hers, over and over with her squeezing him in turn. “You don’t feel like an old man. You’re my man.”

He chuckles softly against her hair, building a pace against her, hands moving to caress the skin of her waist, her hips, her thighs. “That I am.”

“Mine,” she repeats, angling her head to join her mouth again with his, drinking greedily from his lips as he increases his pace, the storm beginning to wane. He nods, and she opens her eyes to watch the lines of his brow crease in concentration, before he opens his as well, smirking against her petal-soft lips.

Pushing her back to brace herself against her hands on the table, he thumbs her nipples, distracted almost, before sliding one arm around her and sliding the other down to their joining place, pressing the pad of his thumb against her clit as his hips increase their pace yet again.

“Ah!” she gasps, wrinkling her nose, mouth hanging open as she moves unceasingly to meet his every thrust.

Her head drops back, damp hair cascading down her back and over her shoulders, teasing her breasts and the white skin at her waist. Eustace watches her, transfixed on the movement of her stomach muscles as she works with him, works him, higher and higher—

“Oh goodness,” she mutters, the long lines of her neck moving with her voice. “Oh goodness, so good, so good, Eustace.”

“Right,” he tells her, sliding the nub between his thumb and pointer fingers, his ministrations rewarded with another rush of wetness against his hands. _So wet_ , he thinks, and then tells her. “You feel so good, my love.”

“I’m your love?” she asks, panting with desire, lifting her head to look at him. So beautiful and perfect and his.

He nods, pulling her to him again, until they are moving chest to chest, his hands sliding to her bottom, lifting her up and against him with every stroke. He noses her cheek, kisses her noble cheekbones, the slope of her jaw.

“I love you,” he tells her. “I love you, mon amour, ma chère, ma moitié. I have loved you and will always love you. I—I—,” he stumbles over his words, breaking them with an elongated moan. “I will love you until the end of time. You are my love, my lady.”

“I love you,” she breathes in return. “I love you so much.” Her fingers return yet again to his curls, and she brings her forehead to his. Their hips are moving so fast, faster and faster until Mary fears that they will meet and spark, set the whole barn aflame like Eustace has done to her insides, the heat in pelvis growing hotter and hotter and impossibly wet, until he moves with her, against her with no friction at all.

She grabs at him wildly; hands moving to his back, clawing at him as her moans grow louder, turning into desperate cries.

“I love you, yes I love you,” she chants, over and over again, forehead pressing hard against his strong shoulder as he lifts her over and over on his member, his curls chafing against that spot, the pressure building insanely high. “Forever. Forever, Eustace. You’re the only thing—the only one I have. Please—please don’t ever—never leave me, please, please,” she sobs.

“Never,” he groans against her, on fire, the ring of muscles at her opening clenching him with every upward thrust, pushing him closer and closer. “I will never leave you, my lady. You are my mistress, my master. Above all others, there is only you.”

“Please,” Mary gasps, beginning to shatter in his arms. “Please, oh Lord in heaven, _please_.”

“That is it, my lady.” His fingers bite tighter into her hips, bringer her down to him again and again, harder and faster, until he shifts his hips ever so slightly—

And Mary screams, shaking apart against him, eyes squeezed shut as pools of warmth radiate through her, every muscle gripping the sensation tightly and then exploding out in a marvelous show of light.

“Mary,” he groans in her ear as her hips move in stutters and starts, her channel squeezing him mercilessly as she rides out her climax against him. “Mary, Mary, my love. So beautiful. Mary…”

His hips slow to a tell-tale grind, and with a hiss he pulls himself from her, spending himself on her thigh, a pained groan escaping between his teeth. Coming back to herself, Mary cradles his head against her breast as he pumps his hips against her, helplessly jerking into her thigh, coating it with his seed.

“That’s right,” she whispers affectionately into his ear, petting his hair as he comes down from the high, nuzzling his cheek.

He pulls back, kissing her tenderly.

“Warm yet?” Chapuys asks, laughing.

Mary hums, eyes drifting to the windows. The storm has picked up again, the sky darker than before.

“I’m not sure,” she breathes, winding herself around him once more. “I might be getting cold again…”

 


End file.
